“I trust he was looking well,” she said.
“Actually he wuz a little green around the gills,” piped up Hawk. “It might have been the drink—he smelled like the inside of a brandy barrel. But more likely it was the dead body he’d just found.”
Charlotte jerked her head up, and then swore as hot grease spattered her fingers.
“Language, m’lady,” said Raven primly, which drew another chortle from his brother.
“A dead body.” She carefully wiped her hands on a rag. “As in someone expiring from natural causes?”
“Being butchered ain’t natural,” he replied.
“Don’t say ain’t,” whispered Hawk.
“You mean it was a murder?” asked Charlotte, though the answer seemed clear enough.
“Aye, and a grisly one at that. The man’s clothing was slashed into ribbons and his belly was cut up something awful,” answered Raven.
She felt herself stiffen.
“Lord Wrexford said it were likely a falling out among thieves,” added Hawk.
Ah, thank God—an ordinary murder. One that had no deeper significance than greed and desperation. The footpads who prowled through St. Giles were known as some of the most violent criminals in all of London.
“I daresay he’s right,” said Charlotte, feeling an odd rush of relief. For any number of reasons, she was glad that the circumstances would not draw the earl into being a subject for her pen.
Again.
No doubt he was even more pleased than she was.
Thrusting aside thoughts of Wrexford, she focused on a more pressing concern. “And it is a grim reminder that St. Giles is a dangerous neighborhood, especially late at night.” She dared not voice more than an oblique warning. Raven was fiercely independent and the ties that bound them were those of trust, not blood.
He shrugged. “Death is everywhere, m’lady.”
“That doesn’t mean you should cock a snoot at the Reaper.”
Her words elicited a grudging smile. “We’re careful.”
Not nearly careful enough, thought Charlotte with an inward sigh. But she let the subject drop.
“Come help me carry the plates to the table. As an extra treat, I also purchased some strawberry jam.”
* * *
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Lord Wrexford.” Smoothing her skirts, Mrs. Isobel Ashton settled herself on the drawing room sofa. “I know I have no right to ask for your help. But . . .”
She drew a measured breath. “But my husband was a great admirer of your intellect and incisive logic, so I thought perhaps. . .”
Her words trailed off, leaving Wrexford still wracking his brain to recall his connection to the murdered man.
“My condolences for your loss,” he murmured, falling back on the sort of platitudes he hated for lack of anything else to say.
“Elihu was particularly grateful for your advice on the chemical composition of iron,” went on the widow. “And how to achieve a metal that withstands heat and pressure.
Ah—the inventor! Wrexford now recalled their correspondence from the previous year. A fellow member of the Royal Institution had suggested that Ashton contact the earl about a problem he was having with the boilers of a new steam engine design.
What a damnable loss for the world of science that the victim was Ashton.
“Your husband possessed a remarkable talent—he had both the imagination and the technical genius to implement his ideas.” Wrexford rarely felt compelled to utter compliments, especially about another man of science. “It’s a terrible twist of fate that he was the unfortunate victim of a random robbery.”
He paused, wanting to choose his next words with care. There was no reason to upset a bereaved woman with any hint that the circumstances of her husband’s death had raised some unsettling questions—
“But that’s just it, Lord Wrexford,” said Isobel before he could speak. “I don’t believe for an instant that my husband’s murder was a random robbery.”
The earl sat back in surprise.
She looked up from her lap. Her face was as pale as Lord Elgin’s Parthenon marbles, but despite the grief shading her fine-boned features, her expression was as hard as sculpted stone. “You may think me a hysterical female, but I promise you, I am not falling victim to a fit of the vapors. Elihu was on the verge of a momentous discovery, and I believe there were those who were prepared do anything—anything—to steal his idea.”
The first question that came to mind was why? Wrexford shifted on the cushions, trying to think of a tactful way to phrase it. But after another glance at her face, he decided the widow didn’t need to be treated like delicate porcelain.
“For what reason?” he asked.
“For the same basic urges that have caused man to murder his fellow man since time immemorial—greed and envy. You have only to read the Greek tragedies to see the truth of it.”
An interesting answer. His first impression on meeting the lady was that she had little substance. In his experience, beauty and brains rarely went hand and hand—and there was no question that Mrs. Ashton possessed striking looks. Her glossy, jet-black hair accentuated the milky perfection of her skin, and the exquisite symmetry of her face brought to mind an ancient sculpture of a classical goddess.
As for her eyes . . .
She met his gaze and didn’t flinch.
“The Greeks were wise about a great many things,” agreed Wrexford. But they weren’t infallible, he added to himself. No one was. Even the great Aristotle had his weaknesses—he was completely bolloxed in his ideas on science.
For an instant, a hint of a smile touched her lips. “I understand that you are skeptical, sir. It’s assumed that women are ruled by an excess of emotion rather than rational thought.” Isobel expelled a sigh. “Alas, too many of us confirm the judgment.”
“As a man of science, I try to base my conclusions on empirical evidence, not preconceived notions,” answered the earl. “So far, I have no reason to believe you’re acting out of hysteria.”
“But nor do you believe that I have any logical reason for suspecting a more sinister reason for my husband’s murder than mere bad luck.”
Wrexford’s opinion of her rose another notch.
“If you will allow me to impose a little longer on your time, I shall endeavor to explain . . .”
A nod signaled her to continue.
“I have every reason to believe my husband was on the verge of creating a revolutionary new steam engine, one whose power would make possible a whole new world of manufacturing.” Isobel paused to draw a deep breath. “Such an invention is not only exciting intellectually, but it would make someone rich beyond their wildest dreams.”
Wrexford needed to think for a long moment before the realization dawned on him. “I take it you’re referring to a patent.” Her fears suddenly seemed far more substantial than mere figments of a flighty imagination. Money was a powerful motive for murder. And owning the rights to such an important technical innovation would indeed be worth a fortune.
“Precisely, milord.”
“What was this new innovation?” asked Wrexford, his scientific curiosity piqued.
A look of sadness darkened her amber-colored eyes. “My husband confided a great deal in me. But on this, he remained very secretive. Perhaps . . .” Her hands fisted together. “Perhaps he feared that speaking of it aloud, even within the privacy of our home, was dangerous.”
Wrexford took a moment to consider all that she had told him. “It seems to me that your concerns are reasonable, Mrs. Ashton.” He pulled a face as the pounding in his head came back with a vengeance. “But what I don’t understand is why are you coming to me. The authorities—”
“The authorities think I’ve been reading too many horrid novels!” she exclaimed. “I met this morning with a Bow Street Runner—a large, untidy man whose wits seemed as slow as his shuffling steps.” The Runners were a group of men under the formal command of the Magistrate at
No. 4 Bow Street, and one of the few official forces tasked with solving crimes.
“He made it clear that my husband’s murder was—as he put it—an unfortunate result of a man straying into the wrong place at the wrong time,” continued Isobel. “And that the chances of capturing the culprit were virtually nil.”
However slow-witted the Runner was, Wrexford tended to agree with his assessment. Most murders in the stews remained unsolved.
“Be that as it may,” he replied. “I have no expertise in criminal investigations.”
“That’s not what Humphry Davy of the Royal Institution says,” countered Isobel.
Damnation. Davy was so fond of the sound of his own voice that he tended to talk too much.
“Mr. Davy was kind enough to call on me and offer his condolences,” explained the widow. “When I expressed my worries about the authorities, he mentioned that you were instrumental in solving a recent murder.”
Before he could respond, she added, “And I, like most of the public, saw the series of prints by A. J. Quill. The artist implied that it was through your efforts that justice was done.”
Wrexford squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had followed his first instinct on waking and gone back to sleep.
“They both have greatly exaggerated the truth,” he muttered. “Contrary to what you may think, I am no crusader for justice. Any efforts I made were to save my own neck.”
“Please,” she said softly, lowering her gaze. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
Feminine wiles bored him to perdition. But Ashton was a colleague. And a brilliant man of science. Recalling the corpse lying in the muck of a deserted alleyway, he let out a long breath. “I can make some inquiries. But I can’t promise that they will do any good.”
“Bless you, milord,” she said, fixing him with a beatific smile.
“I doubt the Almighty would agree,” murmured Wrexford. “It’s the Devil who’s more frequently invoked when people mention my name.”
“Nonetheless, I have great faith in your abilities, sir.”
In his experience, faith rarely aligned with probability. But he kept such skepticism to himself.
“If I am to be of any help, I need to know everything I can about the possible reasons for your husband’s murder. To begin with, do you have any idea why he was in that part of Town so late at night?”
“He told me he was spending the evening at White’s with some fellow members of the Royal Institution. But upon our arrival in London several days ago, he had received a note from someone who seemed to know about his research and wished to discuss some very important implications—”
“Who?” interrupted the earl.
Isobel’s lips tightened for an instant before she answered. “The note was signed A Kindred Spirit in Science. I counseled him not to respond. But Elihu was trusting—too trusting—of people.” She looked down at her hands. “I fear he may have arranged a meeting despite my objections. Other than that, I can think of no earthly reason why he would have strayed to the stews.”
Wrexford made a mental note to learn whether Ashton had a taste for gambling or women. Wives, however sharp, didn’t always see a man’s every weakness.
“Do you still have the note?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“I should like to see it.” The earl doubted it would be of any value, but at this point, any scrap of evidence was worth collecting.
“Of course,” she replied. “One of Elihu’s investors kindly offered us the use of his townhouse for our visit. I shall have one of the footmen bring it to you.”
“One last thing—I should like to see a list of all the people who knew about your husband’s research, and how close he was to a breakthrough.” He steepled his fingers. “And I should like your assessment of who among them might be willing to kill to possess it.”
Isobel shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze. Shadows skittered over her profile and yet he could see that her face had turned deathly pale.
“Mrs. Ashton?”
“I’ll compile a list and send it to you, along with the note,” she whispered. “It pains me to think that anyone on it would wish my husband ill.” The skin tightened over the bones of her face, giving her beauty a fragile edge. “But if you must begin looking at possible motives, I suggest you speak with my husband’s personal secretary, Octavia Merton, and his laboratory assistant, Benedict Hillhouse.”
Isobel paused, and to his eyes her expression seemed to harden.
“Given how closely they worked with him on his experiments,” she said carefully, “they will know the most about any secret animosities.”
CHAPTER 3
Charlotte picked up the woven straw hat and carefully shook the dust from its floppy brim. The motes floated through the still air, sparkling like bits of gold in the sunlight slanting though the narrow window. It was, she told herself, only a figment of her maudlin memories that the musty back room suddenly seemed redolent with the summer-warm fragrance of cypress and thyme.
Italy had been a time of simple pleasures—ethereal light, glorious art, breathtakingly beautiful landscapes, cheap wine. She and her late husband had been poor as church mice. And yet they had been happy there.
With a pinch of her fingers, she fixed a crick in the paint-stained crown, and then set it atop a neatly folded pile of Anthony’s clothing. The hat been a great favorite of his—he’d worn it every day while painting outdoors amid the classical ruins of Rome. They had both loved the sense of old and new that one saw in every vista of the city. It made life seem eternal.
But it was now time to truly put the past behind her. Anthony’s death had been . . .
Avenged? Charlotte hesitated, running her hand over the soft folds of a linen shirt. No, that wasn’t the right word. Perhaps the emotion defied definition. Knowing the truth had at least allowed her to make peace with her demons—and his.
It had been a senseless death. But life was capricious. All the more reason to look to the future.
Charlotte quickly finished sorting through the box of Anthony’s clothing and returned to the main room.
“Raven,” she said, after scribbling a short missive and folding the paper. “Would you and Hawk kindly take a note to Mr. Henning?” The surgeon ran a clinic for wounded war veterans. She was sure that a donation of clothing would be most welcome.
The boys looked up from their schoolbooks—too quickly, she thought with an inward sigh. With all the distractions of readying for the move, they had been neglecting their studies.
“Aye, of course, m’lady!” said Raven, shooting up from his stool.
“And we’d be happy te run any other errand for you,” added Hawk hopefully.
“Thank you, but the note may wait until after you have finished the chapter on the Glorious Revolution.”
“History’s boring,” grumbled Raven, reluctantly sitting down.
“Actually it’s not,” she countered. “It’s all about the fascinating people—the politicians, the philosophers, the artists, the soldiers, the musicians—who shape the world.”
Hawk looked thoughtful. “William of Orange does seem a like wery interesting fellow.”
“William—now there’s a good, strong name.” Charlotte seized the opportunity to change the subject. It was a sore point between them, but much as she disliked pressing the boys, it couldn’t be put off much longer. A decision had to be made.
Raven muttered a word she pretended not to hear. “I don’t want a new name.” His chin took on a pugnacious tilt. “Wot’s wrong with the one I have?”
They had been over that question countless times during the past week. The new neighborhood was only a scant half mile away. But it was a different world from the stews of St. Giles. To fit in, the boys needed real names.
“Think of it this way,” she reasoned. “Life is all about change—a caterpillar turns into a colorful butterfly. You are simply shedding your old skin and taking on a new one. It will be . . .”
<
br /> A loud knock on the front door saved her from having to utter yet another platitude.
“That must be the carter.” Charlotte hurried through the entryway and threw back the bolt.
“You’re late,” she chided as the portal swung open.
“Am I?”
The Earl of Wrexford was wearing a superbly tailored coat, a rakish low-crown beaver hat—and his usual sardonic smile, noted Charlotte.
“That should be of no surprise,” he went on, stepping past her without waiting for an invitation to enter. “You know conventional manners bore me to perdition.”
“Indeed I do. So I take it this isn’t a social call?” she replied with a harried sigh. It had been a fortnight since his last visit, and the unexpected appearance caused a tiny hitch in her heartbeat—though she was too preoccupied to think about why.
Ignoring her question, Wrexford took off his hat and ran a hand through his wind-ruffled dark hair. It looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in weeks.
“Halloo, Weasels,” he called to the boys.
“You see, m’lady,” challenged Raven. “His Lordship doesn’t give a rat’s arse about calling us by a heathen moniker.”
Charlotte bit her lip in exasperation. Given the earl’s penchant for sarcasm, this was not likely to end well.
“I seem to have intruded on some sort of altercation,” he murmured. “Pray tell, what’s the problem?”
“Never mind,” she said through gritted teeth.
He arched a brow.
“She wants us te have proper English names,” volunteered Hawk. “So when we move te a new neighborhood no one will know we’re nuffink but orphan guttersnipes.”
“It’s bloody stupid and I won’t do it!” cried Raven hotly. “I refuse te be a Charles or a Nathaniel—or any other cursedly idiotic name.”
“Merde,” muttered Charlotte and then tried another tactic. “Come, there must be some choice that doesn’t make your skin crawl.”
Raven’s expression turned even more mulish.
“Ye god,” murmured the earl. “All this sturm und drang, when the answer is laughably simple.”
She fixed him with a look of mute appeal. “Please, sir, this isn’t a game.”
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 3